A Thousand Years
by TorchwoodFallenAngel
Summary: Holy Rome is in what Prussia calls "love". Deep love. Head over heels, madly, crazily, slightly obsessively in love with Austria's beautiful maid with that perfect curl. And thus starts a love story that will lead everyone involved down a path filled with joy, laughter and deep despair. Warning: Major Character Death.


**This is my first Hetalia story, written after I had an idea for a really sad ChibitaliaxHoly Rome CMV. The Germanics are my most favourite "family" in Hetalia ad I just adore the love story between HRE and Chibitalia. This was written whilst listening to Christina's Perri's "A Thousand Years" on repeat so yes, some lines etc may have snuck in there. Also, France is a bit of a douche in this one and, if you know the basic gist of the story, there is a Major Character Death strongly hinted in it.**

**As always, please read, enjoy and review!**

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HRExChibitalia: A Thousand Years

(AKA: All the fucking feels and cries forever)

Holy Rome knows that this, _this_ is what Prussia calls love. He is in love with Austria's golden-eyed serving girl, with France's little sister. He is in love with everything about her; her eyes, her smile, that one perfect curl in her hair. He follows her around Austria's house like the coward he is, silently watching as she takes such joy in everything around her, in every simple little job.

He can't approach her, won't approach her. He's not Prussia, he's not strong or manly or awesome, no matter how much Germania had told him he would grow in the coming years, nor France, able to sweep any woman off her feet, or even Austria, a gentleman in every way. All he can do is watch this wonderful girl, watch and hope and wait.

That is, until Prussia realises what's he's doing. And then Prussia tells Hungary, who tells Austria, and suddenly he's got a three-nation "Let's get Holy Rome a girlfriend" team on his side. They try and make him talk to her but he's not a talking nation. For years his approach has been "Chase them until they are one with you", something Austria says reminds him too much of Russia and has scared Italy too much for his liking.

So he picks flowers. He picks daisies and crocuses and violets and holds them close, a little bundle of summertime. It's nothing special, but he hopes it's enough. He finds her around the front of the house, tending to the roses that she loves so much. He is nearly frozen by fear but is urged forward by hisses and frantic waves from Austria, Hungary and Prussia, all cleverly concealed behind a pillar. He stumbles forward and before he can turn and run, run fast and far like the coward he is, she's standing up and smiling at him, wide and bright and beautiful.

He says something, he doesn't know what, can't remember for the life of him what and he's about to hold out the flowers, about to give them to her, about to show her exactly how he feels when there's a shout from across the garden. They turn and his heart breaks because it's France, stupid fancy France with his stupid hat and stupid clothes and he's striding down the drive like he owns the place and Italy's face has lit up like it's Christmas and Holy Rome just knows that he's lost her.

And Italy touches him on the arm, just lightly, and runs towards France, laughing full of joy and just when Holy Rome thinks it can't get any worse; France pulls a huge bouquet of roses from behind his back and presents Italy with it. Holy Rome can hear the squeals of joy as Italy buries her face in the flowers, greedily drinking in the scent. He wants to be sick as Italy throws her arms around France's neck, babbling happily.

"Oh grazie fratello! Grazie, grazie, grazie! Oh, they are so beautiful! Cosi bella!"

"I am glad you like them, I know only the best will do for ma petite!"

Holy Rome barely feels the comforting hand on his shoulder from Prussia, barely hears Italy's happy giggles as Austria leads them into the house; all he can hear is France's words ringing in his head. "Only the best… Only the best…"

He tramples crocus and daisy into the carpets as he trudges into the dining room but Austria says nothing, instead guiding him to sit in the chair usually reserved for Prussia. He feels nothing at this small victory, one he would usually be crowing at, only numbness as he glances at Italy, glares at the bouquet so bright and mocking that France places in a vase right next to her. _Look at me_, it says. _This is what she deserves. Not your stupid little flowers, your stupid little empire. She deserves France, deserves fame and glory and wonder. What can you give her?_

He tries to say _My heart_ but it never seems enough.

He runs from the dinner table, ignoring how Italy gazes after him, eyes a little bit sad. He sits on the terrace and definitely does not sulk. He hugs his knees and tries to list all the reasons why Italy would want to be with him. He can only seem to find one: _Because I love her_, because all the others pale in the presence of France. France and the cruel truth of reality.

He's about to give up completely when he feels someone tap him on the shoulder. When he looks up Italy is there, a bowl in her hand and big brown eyes full of concern. She sits down beside him and holds out the bowl. In it is Italy's favourite dessert, lemon bread; the only thing she is normally unwilling to share as far as Holy Rome knows. As they share it Italy leans in closer and closer until her head is resting on Holy Rome's shoulder, her hair tickling his chin, and all Holy Rome can hear is her steady breathing. Oh, and the frantic whispers and _keseseses_ that drifted from the window directly behind them followed by the heavy thump of a frying pan. Holy Rome tries to ignore it.

A few months later Prussia comes home one day with a letter. It's made of thick paper and sealed with red wax, official and foreboding. Holy Rome doesn't remember much after Prussia opens it, the words "war" and "compulsory" echoing in his ears. He knows what this means; he's seen it before. And he knows that there is a chance, a very, very big chance that he will not make it back alive. And that is one thing he cannot bear to do to Italy.

He leaves early in the morning, sneaks downstairs and out of the front door in silence. He gets as far as the gate when he hears a shout. He knows the voice, he doesn't want to turn around, but he does so anyway. Italy is running across the grass, bare feet slip-sliding on the dew-damp grass, headband and apron notably absent and the red ribbon around her neck untied. She slides a bit and tumbles to the ground, Holy Rome rushing to catch her. She clutches his arms desperately, eyes wide and heartbroken.

"Hungary said… I heard them talking… You are not leaving are you? Please tell me it's not true, please tell me you are not going to war, you can't, you can't! Please don't leave… please don't leave me Holy Roma…"

Holy Rome can only hold her close, trying to stop the tears budding in his eyes as he clutches her thin shaking frame. He has no words of reassurance, nothing to stop her tears. All he can do is hold her.

"I have to go. It is my duty as a nation. I need to fight for my empire. I need to fight for my right to survival. I don't… I don't want to leave you, I can't imagine anything worse. But I need to. I'm so very sorry Italia. And I'm sorry…"

He can't say any more, can't say the words that break his heart and would break hers. He can't tell her he loves her then leave, with no hope, no possibility that he'll return to her. Or should he? If he tells her… Then he has something to come back to. Something to dream of. Something to give him hope in those darkest of times. He's still frantically turning over the possibilities in his mind when she makes that decision for him. She reaches around her neck, undoing the clasp on her crucifix. She presses it into his hand, cold fingers curling around his knuckles.

"Take this Holy Roma. Per favoure. Keep it close. I… You will need it. To…p-protect you. I know I am not… It is not much but…"

Her voice is wavering, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks and Holy Rome can't face it any longer. He pulls her in, hands grasping desperately at her back of her neck, and kisses her. She makes a noise of surprise but Holy Rome can't concentrate on that. This is what gives him hope. And then she is kissing him back, sweet, soft lips pressing against his. When he pulls back her eyelids are fluttering, the most beautiful of smiles gracing her face.

"Oh Holy Roma…"

"I love you Italy. I have loved for the last thousand years and I'll love you for a thousand more. I will come to back to you, I promise. I swear on this love, I will come back to you."

"And I will wait. I'll wait another thousand years if I have to. Just come back to me Holy Roma. Per favoure. If you promise to come back to me, I promise I will wait for you. Promise?"

"I promise."

He kisses her once again, sweet and sad and desperate, kisses the silver cross in thanks, then walks away, smiling to her all the while. He will come back. He made a promise.

Seasons pass, the roses in the garden blooming then withering, blooming then withering, and still Italy waits. She waits by the front windows whenever she is not working, staring desperately at the gates as though the sheer force of her will can bring Holy Rome back. Hungary and Austria dare not move him.

Austria has seen much grief during his long life, more heartbreak and despair than a normal human could manage. He has nearly become immune to it; he has to with so many years of pain stretching in front of him. This however, this he cannot ignore; the grief on young Italy's sweet face, the way she longs after Holy Rome and her willingness to wait for him, however long it may be.

Austria knows that the boy is never returning. He knows what Italy need never know: that Prussia returned back home only a few days ago, grief stricken and bloody and broken, eyes mad with loss and bloodlust. He has been confined to bed and though he can't talk Austria understands enough. Holy Rome is lost, most likely dead. He thinks it better that Italy spends her years in hope than consumed with grief for her young love.

This plan goes to flames when France arrives a few weeks after Prussia, resplendent in his victory. Austria lets him in with great reluctance, guiding him away from the West Wing where Prussia now spends his days mourning the loss of his little brother and reliving the horrors that left him near catatonic. When France hears of Italy's ignorance he takes it upon him to tell the child, despite Austria and Hungary's protests. As he ignores their shouts and heads towards Italy's bedroom Austria catches sight of a silver chain dangling from Frances' pocket. A feeling of foreboding fills his heart and he dives forward and grabs it, breaking composure just for a second.

A silver crucifix, the same one that hung around Italy's neck so long ago, dangles from his hand. It is spattered with dried blood, the once shining jewels all missing, and Austria hates to think how France got his hands on it, why he would take such a trophy unless it was he who had dealt the killing blow. The silence is deafening as they stare at each other, the accusatory cross glinting in the light. They stand there for who-knows how long until the clock tolls, startling them, and France whips into action, grabbing the cross back and striding towards Italy's room, defiant and victorious as he stuffs it into his inside pocket.

Austria can only listen as Italy's joyous chatter turns to sadness and finds his piano as if he can possibly drown out the sounds of Italy's despairing wails. Sometimes it is better that you don't feel. Then you have nothing to lose.


End file.
